Understanding
by slyprentice
Summary: "Please, Will," the agent murmured from above "Call me "


**Title: **Understanding**  
Author:** Prentice  
**Rating**: Mature  
**Fandom**: Hannibal (TV)  
**Pairing**: Hannibal/Will  
**Warning**: _Alternate Universe - Role Reversal. Canon-typical violence, cannablism. _  
**Notes**: _This was written as a hannibal kink meme response that asked for FBI Agent Hannibal and Serial Killer Will. _

**Summary**: "Please, Will," the agent murmured from above him. "Call me Hannibal."

* * *

"I need you to understand."

Fingers trembling around the edge of the knife, Will tried not to notice how slippery his fingers were, blood and bits of flesh sliding against his skin. It was still warm, the blood and the flesh, small gobs that were spongy and soft beneath his fingers. Even the smell – it was fresh, still copper-salt sweet like a penny on his tongue and not that stale musk of the long dried.

It made him shudder that smell. He'd always liked it. Always preferred it when the people he lost himself in had an appetite for it. It was hard to explain, though. Hard to quantify.

Blood was messy. Messy and sticky, getting beneath your nails and soaking into your clothes and it was hard to clean up. Nearly impossible if you didn't have the right tools for it, the kind that made blood stains disappear, even the ones that weren't visible to the naked eye. It was just – just –

Will didn't like mess. Didn't like the way it dried. Didn't like the way it congealed. He didn't like it. He didn't, didn't, didn't. But –

Hand shaking, he let go of the knife and brought his fingers to his mouth, lips and tongues wrapping and curling around those bloody digits, ignoring the gobs of fleshy fat. It tasted so good. Sweet, even, when it was fresh and smelled so good, like pennies and sweets and salt.

He liked that. When it was fresh and good and he had to hurry before it all got cold and too sticky to be good anymore.

Pulling his fingers from his bloodied mouth with a nasty smack, he blinked, trembling still as he looked up at the other man in the room. He was tall – much taller than Will – and dressed nice. Nicer than any other FBI agent Will had ever seen, in fact, with a three piece suit that hugged his frame and made him look larger than life, utterly imposing. Even without the suit jacket and his sleeves rolled up, the crimson of his tie and the holstered gun on his hips, he was – god, he was beautiful and Will needed him to know, to _understand_.

"I – please, I need you to – you have to – it has to be fresh. I can't – I don't want it if – "

"If it's not fresh?" The agent asked, voice low, soft. It made Will shudder, that voice. It was like the smell of the blood. Salt-sweet, husky, with a vaguely European lilt that Will couldn't place. "It has to be fresh?"

Nodding, Will sucked on the tips of his fingers nervously, relief churning in his belly. The man – the agent – understood. Dropping his hand, he crawled a little forward, hands and knees dragging through the blood that was soaking into the carpet. It was already cooling, pools of it congealing around the girls corpse.

She was so pretty this way. Not like before, when she'd been sneering at her father before disappearing into the car park, headed to the car that he'd just bought her. Ungrateful, she had been ungrateful, and so ugly.

But Will had made her pretty. Inside and out. So pretty.

Half-cleaned fingers plucking at the cuff of one of the agent's trouser legs, he blinked up at the man behind his blood speckled glasses. This man was pretty. Even his shoes were pretty, all shiny and black. Not at all like the girl.

He was different. Special just like his title at the FBI said. Will could tell. He could always tell. "You understand, don't you?"

Slowly, one of the man's hands lowered, touching the soft curls on top of Will's head. The ones that weren't sticky with blood and starting to get clump together and get hard. He petted them, gently, softly, like Will was a scared little puppy. Will hummed, leaning in, resting all his weight against the man's leg.

He was strong, too. He'd looked strong, all those times Will had seen him both in person and on the internet. Freddie Lounds had been very thorough when it came to reporting about Special Agent Hannibal Lecter.

Will wasn't sure how he felt about that – Lounds being so focused on the man – but he liked all the pictures the reporter had managed to get of Hannibal. They didn't do the man justice, of course. Not up close like Will was now.

"Yes, Will, I understand. "

"Good," Will muttered, nuzzling into the man's trouser leg. "Special Agent Lecter."

For a moment, the fingers in his hair paused. Will huffed, nuzzling harder. The trousers were soft against his face, scraping against his blood splashed stubble. Slowly, almost hesitantly, the petting continued, warm and soft and so good.

"Please, Will," the agent murmured from above him. "Call me Hannibal."

**END**


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